


superbia

by thoughquaking (xigithy)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xigithy/pseuds/thoughquaking
Summary: Foreteller Ira thinks of nothing but the Master- and that's just the way he likes it.
Relationships: Ira/Master of Masters (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	superbia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crowtective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowtective/gifts).



Ira hardly makes it back to his bedchamber before he’s on himself. 

The heavy, wooden door has hardly locked with a metallic _click_ behind him before Ira is grabbing at handfuls of his clothing, ripping the carefully dressed fabric wantonly off his person and tossing them aside without regard. The delicate cotton and silks will wrinkle, crease in ways that betray his carelessness- and _later_ , Ira will care- but now they serve only as needless barriers against his true intentions. 

He makes it (barely) to his bed and sits heavily atop the crisp, smooth sheets with a shaky sigh. He’s already fully hard, and it had taken every ounce of self-restraint at his disposal to not stow away in an alcove or closet to take care of himself then and there. It’s downright _shameful_ , that he’s allowed himself to be brought to such a state, and as he recounts the events leading up to now, Ira can feel himself blushing hard beneath the mask that he can’t quite bring himself to remove.

They had met in the clocktower- just him and the Master. These days it is so infrequently just the pair of them; the Master often has Luxu at his side, and there’s seldom a time when Ira doesn’t have at least one of the other apprentices accompanying him. So to be alone, just him and the Master, was a treat in itself. 

What the Master had summoned Ira for holds little importance to him now. It had been something concerning the unions- something vital to maintaining the order between them- but as Ira leans back onto his forearm with another gentle sigh- he finds that he doesn’t care to remember the specifics of their conversation.

What Ira does care to remember- to replay in his head over and over until it’s all that remains in his memory- is every minute detail of their time together; the way that the Master had sidled up to him, his face hidden from view as always, but his ear-to-ear grin obvious in the way he had practically sung out Ira’s name upon seeing him enter the room. The recollection of the lilt in his Master’s voice sends a hard shiver down Ira’s spine, and his dick twitches in anticipation. 

In response, Ira palms his free hand against himself, pressing _just_ enough against the sensitive area to stoke the fire growing in his belly. 

The Master had been warm and welcoming to his head Foreteller when Ira had joined him earlier; he was very seldom _cold_ towards Ira, but there was something _different_ in the way that he clapped his strong hand against the shorter man’s shoulder, and in the way he had squeezed softly, before sliding his hand down to rub small circles into Ira’s back as he began to chatter on about- what had he been going on about, again?

Ira runs his hand loosely up the underside of the shaft of his cock and bites his lip through an undignified whine as he swipes a thumb over the head of it. 

Light from Daybreak Town’s setting twilight sun trickles into the room from behind the drawn curtains, and Ira can swear that he sees the darkened silhouette of the Master himself materialize in the lingering shadows at the far corner of the room. Calloused fingers wrap- _finally_ \- around his cock and Ira gives it a few slow, tentative strokes- his eyes not leaving the imagined spot where the Master stands. 

The drumming of his heart pulses through Ira’s whole body as he quickens his pace incrementally, and a pink blush kisses the apples of his cheeks as he gives another passing thought to the illusion of the Master- standing there, expectantly- giddily- watching as Ira touches himself. He’d love this, wouldn’t he? There were few things the Master loved more than having his ego stroked, and Ira can imagine few things would stroke the other man’s ego more than the knowledge that one of his own apprentices got off to the mere _idea_ of him. Ira groans low as he squeezes at the base of his cock and considers how he longs to stroke something _else_ of the Master’s.

Ira winces at the terrible pun sprung forth from his own mind, but the distantly still-rational part of Ira reminds himself that that’s _exactly_ the sort of wordplay the Master liked and often utilized himself. Adjusting his position slightly, Ira alters his pace- slowing again to long, deep strokes that are reminiscent of a time long since passed- when Ira had finally given in to the advances of the other man- when Ira had finally acquiesced the Master’s desire to know if the unicorn mask was indeed a fit for Ira, and if he was similarly hung like the animal representative of him and his union.

There’s another low moan from Ira, a quiet vocalization that verges on forming a name he dare not speak aloud, and he grinds his hips up needily against his own grip, thrusting in time with the breath that comes from him in short, desperate pants.

The Master had been pleased with their time together, pleased with every curve and every edge of Ira’s body- and had not been shy about articulating each passing thought he had on the matter. He had praised Ira for his skill, lauded Ira with each deep, forceful thrust into the other man, and the two words that had sent Ira tumbling from the edge far sooner than he would have liked echo now in his head, like a music box playing a sweetened tune on repeat: _good boy_.

And that brings another deep, full-body shudder from Ira as the heat in the pit of his belly coils tightly with want. 

_You’re doing such a **good job** , Ira. I’m so **proud** of you._

The Master’s words from earlier in the day were what set Ira down the path he’s on now, and though it shames Ira to think something as simple as a compliment from the other man was enough to undo him so thoroughly, he has to admit there’s a part of him that desires more. 

The amalgamation of shadows in the peripherals of Ira’s vision twist, and in Ira’s imagination, the Master still stands, watching- observing- and telling Ira how _good_ he’s being for him. How _pretty_ he is, splayed out on the bed, long dick in hand. How _gorgeous_ his cock looks with each deliberate stroke: red and angry and positively dewy with pre-come. Ira imagines the Master is there to tell him what a _good boy_ he is- what a _good, loyal boy_ \- to fuck himself only to thoughts of his Master and what a _good job_ Ira had done of keeping his hands to himself for so long while the Master went on and on about roles and unions and the others.

Ira’s moans come louder now as the imagined Master whispers nothing but praise in Ira’s ears. He’s so close now, on the cusp of imminent release- and each wild, desperate whimper from the foreteller is like a pleading prayer for the satisfaction he craves. 

When the Master had dismissed him from their assemblage, he had reached out for Ira once more, patting a leather-clad hand to Ira’s cheek as he spoke his farewells; there had been something _knowing_ in the way he had bid Ira have a good night- the way he had insisted that it was what Ira _deserved_ after all the _hard work_ he had been doing lately. 

  
And the permission Ira had been craving, given to him far before he knew he wanted- no, _needed_ it- brings the swelling sinfonietta of his pleasure to a crescendo, and Ira’s body tenses before shuddering as thick, hot release pulses from his cock and onto his bare thighs.

He hardly has time to come down from his near heavenly high, before there’s a familiar rapid knocking at the door to his chamber. Frantically, Ira scrambles from the bed, searching for something- anything to clean himself off with as he redresses in the now wrinkled fabrics of his robes. The knocking comes from the door again- more insistent this time- and Ira only just manages to finish dressing and unlock the door before _his_ voice is calling out to Ira.

Ira swings the door open, his breath still coming in ragged pants, and is suddenly face to face with the Master, who stands leaning casually against the door frame.

“Hey; I need you.”

Behind the forgiving mask of the unicorn, Ira’s eyes go wide and he begins to sputter as he tries, and fails, to regain his bearings. 

“I- excuse me? Master-”

“ _Relax_ , Ira,” the Master waves a dismissive hand between them with a giggle, “I just need a little more one-on-one time with you. Think you can spare me some precious alone time?”

“For you, Master? Of course.”

The Master hums, pleased, and turns abruptly to walk down the hall and back towards the clocktower. As he strolls away, he calls out his response to Ira, the ear-to-ear grin again present in the way he sings out to him.

“ _Good boy_.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually prompted to me on my Twitter a _while_ ago, but a recent influx of art inspired me to finish it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think and please support the MoM/Ira agenda, thanks! <3


End file.
